by Diane Capri
“I used her card to get to the door of a BSL level 3 lab.”
“I didn’t pass that information along.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, Winter seemed agitated when she was told Elden’s cell phone had been located in Zorita.”
“But was she surprised?” Jess asked.
“Dunno. She admitted that Grupo Lopez is a competitor. She speculated they’re working on something new.”
“How does she know that?”
“Apparently, the company that supplies Kelso Products with equipment for their labs also supplies Grupo Lopez.”
“Ah. What kind of new product?”
“Winter didn’t know, but apparently they ordered some expensive stuff from the equipment supplier. The sort of things used in a top-end biological lab.”
“Are you going to follow up?”
“Me? No. It’s not my case. Remington’s team asked the Spanish police to question Elden, and they might do it. But since Elden was in Spain at the time of the explosion, Remington isn’t too concerned with her.”
“Great.” Jess ran a hand through her hair and closed her eyes.
“Sorry. But Remington thinks the link between Elden and Grupo Lopez is not relevant.”
“Any links from Alex Cole to Grupo Lopez?”
“Don’t know, and Remington isn’t going to spend any resources on that. He says it’s unlikely that a foreign competitor set off the bomb.”
She sighed. “Well I’m not leaving here before I’ve talked to Elden.”
“Just don’t get too attached to Elden as a suspect, Jess.” He’d lowered his voice to the tone he used when they were alone.
“You mean I should accept that Alex Cole actually is a bomber.”
“It’s looking that way.”
“A bomber with no motive.”
“No known motive.” He paused. “Yet.”
Jess sighed. Henry could be right. She could have wasted two days and a good deal of the magazine’s money and might never have anything publishable here.
“Maybe,” she replied. “But that answer still doesn’t feel right to me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday, August 18
6:45 p.m. CET
Zorita, Spain
Hadlow watched the blonde woman return to her rented Mini Cooper. She talked on her phone for several minutes.
He stepped back into a shadowed doorway out of sight. Four years as a commando and seven years in the British SAS before he’d moved to MI-6 had trained him well.
He was too tall and fit to remain invisible in a crowd. He wore clothes meant to conceal and avoided situations where he was likely to be spotted or identified.
A sepsis outbreak in Africa three months ago rang alarm bells everywhere. Two hundred people died. The cause of the outbreak remained unknown, but MI-6, the CIA, and other agencies were convinced the outbreak was caused by a new bio-weapon.
A terrorist was killing people with poison. Had to be. Nothing else made sense.
Hadlow and other agents were dispatched to chemical plants across the globe. He’d drawn the short straw. Monitoring scientists at pesticide manufacturer Grupo Lopez had been nothing but a snooze fest.
Until the blonde turned up.
She’d followed Felipe Cantor and the Elden girl from Grupo Lopez, but lost them in the crowds. She’d almost lost them at the bus station, but persevered. She was an amateur. But he gave her kudos for sheer dogged effort.
Who was she and why was she following Cantor and Elden?
She finished her call, started her car, and pulled out.
Hadlow hustled to his silver Ford, and followed a half dozen cars behind her toward the center of Zorita.
She stopped at the Hotel Alfonso. Not the best hotel in Zorita, but by far the oldest. A sprawling place with towers and domes and balconies. The entrance was shielded from sun and rain alike by a portico shaped like a tent with a gracefully curved roof.
She pulled up in front. A young valet rushed to open her door and fetch her luggage.
Hadlow swung his Ford into the first space he found, and jogged into the lobby.
The woman was checking in.
He sat in a giant red velvet armchair and consulted his phone, surreptitiously taking pictures.
Another porter escorted her to the elevators.
Hadlow remained seated. In the close confines of the Alfonso, she was easily monitored.
Three minutes later, the porter returned. Hadlow followed him outside to the valet stand. Twenty euros later, Hadlow knew the woman’s name and room number.
He returned to his car, pulled out his phone, and dialed his boss.
“Yes?” Nash’s thick accent came from the north of England.
“We’ve got company. An American. Jessica Kimball. Five-four, curly blonde, light but athletic. Arrived today. Probably flew in on a commercial airline.”
“Anything more specific?”
“She tailed Elden and Cantor.”
“Make contact?”
“No. And she’s not a professional, unless US standards are slipping.”
“They don’t have agents in Zorita.”
“Well, it would be nice to have a little help here. I’ve only got two hands,” Hadlow replied.
“We’ve been over this. I’ve got no one I can send to Spain. We’re all stretched thin as it is. Anything else?”
“I’ll send her picture momentarily. She made a long phone call twenty minutes ago on a mobile.” Hadlow paused, but Nash said nothing more. “I’ve got her room number. I’ll check it when she goes out. Meantime, you’ll need to earn some of that fat salary you rake in.”
“Keep the lip to yourself. You’re there to do what you signed up for. Remember that.” Nash was old school. Do the job. Keep your opinions to yourself. Those were the tenets he lived by. He expected his subordinates to comply as well.
Hadlow ground his teeth. “I need to know whether her arrival is important and exactly who I’m dealing with. Because if it comes down to it, I’m the one who has to do the dealing.”
Hadlow hung up immediately. He had no time or patience for Nash’s inevitable tongue-lashing. He’d endured the shouted lectures from his superiors once. Long ago. When he was a soldier and had no choice.
But not now. MI-6 wanted results. As long as he delivered results, Nash’s preferences were irrelevant.
Besides that, Nash wasn’t sending reinforcements no matter what Hadlow wanted. He was wasting his breath even bringing the matter up.
Hadlow was on his own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Thursday, August 18
7:15 p.m. CET
Zorita, Spain
The Alfonso’s stylish continental vibe was accomplished by pastels mixed with strong colors and heavy gilt on everything. The bed was firm and the bathroom gleamed white and gold and silver.
Jess’s phone rang. The display said the number was unknown, which meant nothing because she was outside the US. “This is Jess Kimball.”
“Vanna Sánchez from Grupo Lopez.” She spoke with a distinct Spanish accent, but her command of English was excellent. “I understand you were at our offices this afternoon.”
“Right,” Her attention perked up and her desire for a nap disappeared.
“Rafa Lopez, our CEO, would like to have dinner with you this evening.”
Jess frowned. “Actually, I was hoping to meet with Debora Elden.”
“We will pass your message along, of course. In the meantime, Mr. Lopez is familiar with your magazine, and would consider it an honor to host you at dinner this evening.”
Jess raised her eyebrows. The request seemed odd, to say the least. CEOs rarely sought her out unless they wanted favorable coverage in Taboo Magazine. She wasn’t working on anything related to Grupo Lopez and didn’t plan to. Unless the Alex Cole story led straight back to Grupo Lopez. In which case her story wouldn’t be favorable at all.
“It’s dinner, Ms. Kimball. Surely, you’ll need to ea
t,” Vanna coaxed, but the underlying message came across. An invitation from Rafa Lopez was not to be refused. “I assure you the meal will be excellent.”
“I’m sure it will.” Jess frowned. Vanna Sánchez wasn’t the only one with an iron will. “Tell Mr. Lopez to bring Ms. Elden along and I’ll be more than happy to join them.”
“Shall we say eight-thirty? I will arrange a car to collect you at the Alfonso.” Vanna Sánchez hung up before Jess could say anything else.
How did Vanna Sánchez know Jess had checked into the Alfonso?
Jess stared at her phone. Taboo Magazine was international. Requests for features were fairly common. But escalating from an impromptu visit with a receptionist all the way to a command performance with the CEO the same day was unprecedented in her experience.
She glanced at the clock. Not much time to grab a shower before the car arrived.
The water was hot and invigorating, but the bathroom’s ventilation did little to dissipate the moisture. She dried off in the bedroom, then tamed her curly hair at the dressing table.
She hadn’t packed for dinner with a CEO, but she felt good in an ivory silk dress and heels. She clipped a gold chain around her ankle and stared at herself in the mirror. Fashion had never concerned her. She was here for business and she looked like it. Which was exactly what she wanted to convey to Rafa Lopez.
At eight-thirty, the phone by the bed rang. A young man said her car had arrived. She checked her voice recorder, unplugged her cell phone from its charger, and dropped both into her purse.
A tall man with muddy brown eyes wearing a loose jacket followed her down the corridor to the elevator. They stood in silence until the doors opened. He gestured for her to enter first.
She stood in the back corner of the descending elevator. When the doors opened, he gestured forward and she moved to exit. He started walking too soon and bumped into her. He flashed a sheepish grin and when she nodded forgiveness, he hurried off in the opposite direction across the lobby.
A black Mercedes-Maybach idled under the awning at the front entrance. The chrome trim was a smoky gray and the windows were darker black than legally allowed back home.
A chauffeur stood at attention by the rear passenger door until Jess approached. “Miss Kimball?”
She nodded.
He opened the door. A woman was seated inside.
Jess stopped.
“I am Vanna Sánchez, Ms. Kimball. Please join me.”
The vehicle was huge. Jess stepped inside and walked across the vast interior to reach the rear seat, which was smooth and supple. The air was rich with aromas of highly polished wood and soft leather. Discreet lights glowed under the seats and the headliner displayed random pinpricks of light like twinkling stars in the distance. Smoked glass separated the passenger seats from the driver’s.
The chauffeur closed the door with a soft thump.
Sánchez offered an ethereal smile, but not a friendly one. Deep blue eyes set in flawless skin and full lips tapered to sharp points on either side of her mouth gave her a distinctive beauty. Her silk jumpsuit was padded with incredibly square shoulders. Her upright posture seemed to float above the seat.
Jess held out her hand. “Jessica Kimball.”
The woman gripped Jess’s fingertips with her own and squeezed for a fraction of a second.
Jess leaned back into the luxurious seat, and fastened her seatbelt.
The woman pressed a button on a console between the seats. “Drive on,” she instructed.
The Maybach moved away silently.
Vanna Sánchez said nothing more.
Jess stared through the darkened window. Only faint shapes and bright lights were visible. Soon, Zorita’s city lights were left behind. Her heart rate picked up a fraction.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Vanna glanced sideways. “Rafa’s villa.”
Jess wasn’t immediately concerned about her safety, but she didn’t appreciate being hijacked. She found her phone and sent a message. “I’ll just let my editor know where he can find me.”
Vanna smirked.
A few minutes later, the driver slowed and turned into a long driveway between the trees lining the road.
A gate crossed the driveway at a stone pillbox security building that looked at least a hundred years old. A guard approached the Mercedes with a flashlight, which he pointed through the dark glass. The light focused first on the driver, then Jess, and finally, very briefly, Vanna.
The driver released the trunk. The guard finished his inspection and closed the lid with a barely perceptible thump.
The gate opened, and the chauffeur drove through.
On the other side of the gate and the line of trees, an expansive lawn ran up to an enormous four-story house lit by hundreds of lights.
The walls were a honey-hued wash of old rocks and artisan mortar. The roof’s traditional Spanish barrel tiles joined at complex angles and shapes where several sections of the house came together.
The road ran up to the front door in a sweeping arc. The area around the front door was festooned with plants, and the plants were festooned with lights. The front door, at least ten feet tall, arched at the top and was made from aged wood. Hidden lights gave a glow to the outside edges as if entering the house would transport the visitor to another world.
Windows punctuated the stone at artistically irregular intervals, which gave the giant structure a comforting feel. As if the place was a home created by love, instead of a large crew and serious construction equipment.
Despite Vanna’s cold reception, arriving at Rafa Lopez’s villa was magical.
The Mercedes-Maybach rolled to a stop with the rear door in a direct line with the entrance to the villa.
Jess moved for the door handle. Vanna placed her hand on Jess’s arm to stop her.
The chauffeur walked around the car, and opened the door.
Vanna released her. “Make the most of your evening.”
“You’re not joining us?”
“We have a busy day tomorrow.” She offered a faint smile. “Please don’t keep him up too late.”
Jess stepped out into the evening and watched as the Mercedes drove away.
The villa’s entrance opened and a butler in a jet-black suit stepped out. “This way Miss Kimball. Señor Lopez is waiting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Thursday, August 18
8:50 p.m. CET
Zorita, Spain
Hadlow slowed his silver Ford and cruised past the driveway. The big Maybach had stopped at a security post in front of a wrought iron gate. A guard was checking the vehicle.
Hadlow rolled on, keeping his foot frozen on the accelerator, not raising or lowering the tone of the engine. He’d been worryingly close to the Maybach at times, but the chauffer hadn’t seemed to notice.
He took a left turn at the first opportunity, following the edge of Lopez’s giant estate until he found a suitable place to pull off the road. He lowered the windows and turned off the engine.
The night was still. He listened, occasionally angling his head to better hear or locate a sound. He checked the rearview mirror constantly, as he had done throughout the evening.
After a minute he was satisfied he was alone. He stepped out of the car holding a small black box.
Inside the box were several circuit cards, with wires trailing between them. A large battery took up half the space. Two tiny, dim LEDs were illuminated. The red light confirmed the box was powered on, the green light confirmed the device was recording. He placed the box in the crook of a tree limb.
Kimball would remain at Lopez’s mansion for several hours. The rural countryside provided little cover for covert observation. The recorder would suffice. He’d collect the results later.
Hadlow drove away from Lopez’s estate. Two miles later, his cell phone rang. “How can I help you, Nash?”
“Anything?” Nash asked.
“The reporter is still alive, if
that’s what you mean.”
“Very glad to hear it. It’s always inconvenient to have to tell our friends at Langley that we watched one of their citizens die.”
Nash meant it as a joke. Black humor. A pen-pusher’s failed attempt to bond with a man in the field. Hadlow clenched his teeth and waited.
Nash coughed to cover his embarrassment and restarted the stalled conversation. “Is she with Lopez?”
“Just arrived, and the recorder is running.”
“The device?”
He smiled to himself. “In her bag since our elevator ride.”
“I’ll be waiting for the upload,” Nash said, his tone suggesting he was unimpressed with Hadlow’s spycraft.
“It’ll be a few hours.” Hadlow hung up.
He took a meandering route back to his hotel, looping around a series of city blocks, and parked a five-minute walk away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Thursday, August 18
9:00 p.m. CET
Zorita, Spain
Jess’s shoes clicked as she followed the butler across the marble floor. An ornate staircase led up to a grand balcony. Two sets of double doors on either side of the foyer, and a corridor to the right of the stairs led deeper into the house.
The doors and the stairs were the same dark wood. The warm patina glowed after years of polishing.
The butler opened the first set of doors on the right. He stepped inside the room, and held the door for Jess.
She walked into a ballroom with a parquet floor and life-size pictures hanging on the walls. Gilt everywhere. Georgian Regency period furnishings dotted the expanse, grouped in small clusters. Each table held a flickering candle.
Rafa Lopez stood near a fireplace on the west wall. He was not quite six feet tall. Salt and pepper hair marked him as being firmly into his fifties, but his brilliant blue eyes flashed like those of a much younger man. His suit was tailored for a perfect fit to his lean, athletic body.
He looked more like an aging soccer star than a mogul.